


The Color

by MythosMeta



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29397099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythosMeta/pseuds/MythosMeta
Summary: a deeper delve into The Greatest Journey. spoilers up to act 2 and the first like, page, of act 3 cuz that's all i knowhappy valentine's eve <3
Relationships: Citron/Guy (A3!)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Citron: To Zafra

Citron leans back in his seat, glancing to the clouds that pass under him. They were pretty, but ironically offered little in the way of escape. He now had several hours of enduring the thoughts he distracted himself from facing for almost two years to look forward to. 

It would have been unbecoming to swipe a pair of Masumi’s backup headphones on the way out. But he would be an even bigger liar if he said he hadn’t thought about it. Far from for the first time, he wishes he _was_ as empty-headed as he acted. To trick his second family. Into thinking he was incapable of deception. So he could deceive them. Again.

He slumps down, enjoying a comfortably poor posture for what would likely be the last time. Just as well, this is what he deserves. He shuts his eyes in a vain attempt at rest. 

As though the looming presence of Zafra somewhere beyond the horizon was seeping into him, strengthening his recall to the land, projections of the events of his last fateful day flicker to renewed life.   
  
Still images of each noteworthy scene are effortlessly summoned to mind. He had remembered them so often at night, he wagers they were condensed to ensure the film reel could start and conclude in the same dream. Poring over his Japanese dictionary in his chambers, the last straw of finding tripwire in his doorway, wrenching his hand off Guy’s unnaturally motionless back as he ran (restless fingers move to bunch the fabric of his pants, a deep voice rings in his ears, chiding him about wrinkles, he presses his palms together and grips them tight, another response he will have to train out), and just before the marble gates can swallow him whole, he forces his heavy lids to open wide.

He is not there yet. For now, Citron is here. He should be dedicating his time to the kingdom, his people, strategizing damage control for his reappearance. Pulling the tray down from the back of the seat in front of him, he lays out his notebook and begins to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will get so long a;sldfkj srry to spam the tag but it seemed like you ppl could use the help. if you are a purveyor of citoguy hmu @yourmajestysghost on tmblr


	2. Guy: Separation Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> page breaks are a POV switch from here on

There it was, the true gravity of His Highness’s presence, on a throne where Guy had always thought he belonged. The weight of a steady, regal gaze that crushed the court’s dissenters combined with the rising tide of the old need to never take his eyes off Citronia threatened to sweep him away. The hook of longing in Guy’s chest was liable to reel him off the stage and up to the balcony, to His side where _he_ belonged. As much as he truly wanted to perfect his role, to put on this play as beautifully as he could for Citronia as much as himself, every fibre of strength left to him was dedicated to standing at his place. 

This sort of conflict must be the reason he did not regain his emotions as an attendant, he thinks. It would have been terribly distracting from his duties if he could be subjected to this at a moment’s notice—could feel torn in half—his soul wrenched from his body and lingering by its fingertips—he’s so close now, but just out of reach… 

Taking a page from his troupe mates' book in desperation, Guy raises his gloved hand and slaps himself in the face.

Arisugawa is quick to wag a finger at him. “Now, now, don’t smear your makeup. Azami is not here to fix it in a matter of seconds.”

“Right. My apologies.”

Tsukioka tilts his head in his direction, unbothered by his outburst. “Are you extra nervous? Is it the new setting?”

“The theater is impressive,” Takato allows, “but nothing to be intimidated by.”

“No,” he answers immediately, “I am eager, more than is wise. I want to show Citronia who I am. So much so, I cannot contain myself.”

A silent understanding reigns for a few beats.

Yukishiro reaches out, briefly squeezing his shoulder. “He’s going to love you, you know.”

"Forgive me." Guy swallows against nothing. “How can you be certain?”

His thin brows draw in confusion. “Because he already loved you,” he says like a fact.

“And our play is good,” Mikage adds.

Yukishiro’s nod brooks not argument. “There’s nowhere to go but up.”

* * *

The opening buzzer shakes Citron to his core.

Guy’s visible eye blazes with intensity, pinning him in place. 

_I see you,_ Guy’s calculated movements say. _Do not look away from me._

_I can’t,_ Citron wills to show on his face, digging his nails into the armrests. _I want to be up there with you._

Citron does not know how long he remains like that, on the edge of his seat, frozen and warmed at once. His world shrinks to the stage, to the 5x5 square Guy occupies, the fraction of his brain that isn’t committing every word to memory tripping over the constant attempts to psychically teleport himself house left.

When the curtains close and a member of the guard calls his attention, Citron follows in a daze.

He leaves in a deeper one.


	3. Citron: Whiteout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to say i streamed yoi no mikazuki thru this whole thing, but the truth is this bit came from In The Heights' "Blackout" a;dlfkj

The first thing Citron does when he wakes to a basement floor is curse his foolishness. His distraction stopped him from fishing up Guy’s combat training in time to stop the… battery? Drugging? He wades through the thick fog in his head, reaching blindly for nondescript clips of knocking his limbs against doorways and the binding of his hands.

He fades in and out of consciousness, never knowing how much time had passed, finally being dragged back to reality by the abject terror of hearing the lookouts’ screams. He wriggles ineffectively against the zip ties. 

Chikage and Itaru swim into view on the edges of his vision. He is being carried again, with far fewer impacts, vertigo preventing him from identifying the areas that pass in a blur.

The whirlwind journey ends in a new set of arms, his nose nudging against a strong neck with a familiar clean scent.

He struggles to parse the calamity of noise, bright lights, and suffocating smoke, narrowly processing what comes out of his own mouth, Guy’s reply, everyone’s shouting, and what he’s supposed to do. 

So he gives up.

Citron surrenders to the racing, self-flagellating stream of consciousness that his confusion had held at bay. Just as he was trying to let go, everything came rushing to the surface: his own wishful thinking, or maybe the impending fever, that the heat in their shared air had grown searing, that Guy’s baseline reciprocity had kicked up the tension to blistering heights. A small, traitorous part of Citron hoped that at long last, he wasn’t the only one whose heart pounded when they were near.

And why shouldn’t you hope, a little demon on his shoulder whispered. He came all this way for you. Broke every rule in the book to get you back. Dressed up as your phantom—the one who haunts your dreams, I’m sure you’re familiar—and swept you off your feet. _I shall dedicate my song to you,_ he said.

_Because,_ every ounce of Citron’s noble training shouted down with an articulation that did not originate from himself, this is why you left. See how your selfishness endangers him even now? Too attached already, and yet your avarice claws for more. You should want him to be free for _him._ You should be ashamed.

And he was.

* * *

“Everybody, get down!”

The chandelier falls, and the stage goes up in flames. 

The group gathered against the back wall, subtroupes grabbing for each other in a collective duck. Minagi lunged for Usui, Takato had Tsukioka and Yukishiro, Mikage was with Arisugawa, and Utsuki covered Chigasaki and Sakuya.

Citronia was dropped in his lap, and so Guy dutifully shields him. His prince is dizzy and trembling, squirming to break his hold. And then what, he thinks ferociously. Crawl to the audience? They must not see their leader in this state, but if Guy’s encircling grip were any more iron, Citronia might hurt himself. Guy brushes his own mouth against the shell of his ear, shushing him.

<Citronia. If you move, you could be cut or burned. Please, stop fighting me.>

Surprisingly obliging, he slows, the fight draining out of every pore, but when he looks up at Guy, his eyes brim with pain.

<Our people…>

<Would not benefit from your suffering. Be still.>

Citronia, more openly distressed than Guy had ever witnessed, slips by inches into an unknown, personal abyss.


	4. Guy: Trading Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry my chapters are so short sometimes, its just the easiest way 4 me yknow,,,  
> ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES

Citronia appeared to have returned to himself when he awoke that evening. Naturally, this did not halt Guy’s hourly questions after his health, which Citronia predictably brushes aside as nagging as he calls on his underlings to assess the situation, Guy on his heels. 

Spring and Winter are hovering in the same waiting room, looking well, chattering amongst themselves. They appear irreverent of the threats they had just faced, though they need no prompting to part for Citronia and his guards. Guy’s admiration for this troupe’s resilience swells with each passing day. He mentally notes to acquire proper gifts to thank them for being a safe home to his charge in his absence.

The prince of the hour performs admirably as usual, as though his disappearance from office was all a strange, prolonged dream. Seeing his unthinking but never careless orders tempered to perfection was making him—he searches for a turn of phrase to experiment with—weak in the knees. Weaker, since they lost a handful of blood to glass shards. No matter.

At last, the informants were dismissed, and the two found a moment to breathe. Guy could not bring himself to relax, however, propped in a far corner of the room, reflexively watching the open doors and windows with the same paranoia that caused him to check the end of every hallway over his shoulder on the way.

Then Citronia turns to him with a soft gaze, and Guy’s focus gets up and walks out with the rest of the help, slamming the door behind it.

<You were amazing> Citronia congratulates, <The moment I saw you…>

<I, too…>  
  
<I knew your voice in an instant.>

Guy perks up further, watching Citronia scan his face to absorb the new expression. <You did?>

<Still so dense. How could I not?> A wistful distance replaces the smile in his eyes, equally as handsome. <I wish I could have heard you sing.>

Guy files that comment away, or more accurately, hoards it and the rest like a dragon with priceless treasure.

* * *

Meanwhile, Citron prepares himself to wield a hammer made entirely of angst, swinging it down to shatter the moment irreparably for the second time today. 

It’s not like he _wants_ to, he’d be abducted twice if it would disperse this cloying guilt and give him the right to be happy-go-lucky for the troupe. But that would, in fact, have the polar opposite effect. He would take any other option than to foist feeling after difficult feeling after serious talk on Guy, especially when he had decided to show up for his sake so soon with his fresh emotional range. He grants himself one minute of deliberation, of basking in Guy’s pride and affection, before doing what needs to be done. 

He will not run. Not from this.

<Guy.> He pauses for his full attention. <I am sorry for this. For everything I put you through. Today, and all these years.>

Guy looks like he’ll try to interrupt already, so Citron forges ahead, <The blame for your condition lies solely on my head. I kept you in Zafra, confined you to the palace in my service.> He wants to hang his head but needs to maintain eye contact. <I will never be able to completely make up for the grief I have wrought on your life. I can only hope you will let me try regardless.>

Guy slips off his gloves and uncharacteristically shoves them in his pocket, moving to stand mere inches in front of him. <I am glad you did not ask for my forgiveness.>

Ah. _Now_ Citron will bow his head. He was half-expecting rejection, but had failed to account for the way it would seem to agonizingly twist every organ in his torso asunder. Silently, he scrambles for an honorable way to excuse himself so no one would see a monarch weep.

While he was caught up on his internal chess board, he also failed to notice Guy’s hands lifting to tilt his head up until he was already cradling his face. <There is no offense to forgive.>

Citron mindlessly presses forward into his palms, and Guy’s thumb strokes under his eye so tenderly that he fears he may cry from relief anyway. He does not know what expression he currently wears, can only feel stiffness in every muscle, but it must be truly pathetic for Guy to be regarding him like he wants to… like he might… 

Guy is about to say something else, and Citron forces himself to listen. 

<Citronia, choosing me saved my life. Another of your sacrifices has given me a second chance at humanity. I pledged my loyalty to you alone, yet I doubted your motivations’ purity. You, who stayed by my side despite my inability to return your feelings.>

To what feelings is Guy referring? Citron’s brain wants the answer but his mouth gapes mannerlessly. This is it, he thinks. His dissenters needn’t mourn their foiled plot because he is going to be undone by his own assistant after all.

<Is this what you need to hear?> Guy continues, heedless of Citron’s plight. <I want you to be reassured of yourself. Of how I see you. And what I am seeing is a person who is so kind, so determined to help everyone and meet their expectations that he has become too hard on himself by far. If that is partially my fault as one of your teachers, I apologize.>

<Guy…> he has to huff out in a whisper, <did you write a whole speech? Please have mercy on me.>

<And please do not laugh me off. I could not be more serious or certain of these words. You are not my warden. I do not need to escape or recover from you. You are my closest companion. My savior.> He bumps their foreheads together, rather fueled by fealty instead of the last few minutes’ amorphous anticipation. <And the person I admire most.>

Citron stares in plain shock, lips parted on questions and answers that couldn’t quite decide between the open air or the backs of his teeth. <…Savior?> he eventually starts, <You are the one who defied a warrant for your arrest to carry me out of a dungeon.>

He feels Guy’s forehead wrinkle in fond exasperation at his sidestepping. At least he seems content in the knowledge that he was heard and Citron would work up his own honest answer later.

* * *

Over Citronia’s shoulder, Guy spots Utsuki's mouth purse as though he was about to cut in on that last assessment of the day’s events. Chigasaki, no doubt not understanding a word they were saying, elbows him with what looks to be bruising force. Guy locks eyes with Minagi next, who places a hand in Sakuma’s fluffy bedhead, turning him until his wandering gaze no longer sticks to Citronia’s back. Minagi anxiously tries to signal both regret and encouragement, and ingratiates himself into the Director’s circle to fuss over Usui. 

Guy really must remember those extra gift baskets. Freed of potential disturbance, he returns his thoughts to Citronia.

And suddenly notices how glassy those eyes are.

<Citronia, you—>

His Majesty, displaying classic royal family unfortunate timing, commands the room’s attention with a single step inside. He does not waste a second of it splitting hairs, dispensing swift judgment, punishment, and promotion.

Citronia accepts the situation with practiced grace, immediately making note of the official address he must have ready by tomorrow and bowing for His Majesty’s departure. But instead of rising back to ramrod posture, Citronia remains low for a few seconds too long.

With the retinue still in earshot, Guy changes his tune.

“You are not well, are you?”

“I… I am—” he grips Guy’s arm hard. Guy offers his other arm too, but Citronia collapses into his chest before he can take it, Guy’s sleeves stretching but not quite ripping under his full weight.

Knowing that Rurikawa will already be cross over the small tears in his trousers, Guy lets Citronia cling, shifting his own arm to support his back and crouching to lift his legs. Guy was planning to wrap them around his waist like he did for the toddler in his care, but finds the adult version’s strength and stubbornness scaled up along with his. Citronia straightens out sideways in what Guy has been told is a “princess carry.” He does not attempt to adjust him further.

His laughter is frail, but Guy is overjoyed to hear it all the same. “Spoiling me, even when it is past my bedtime?”

He smiles indulgently and sets off ferrying him to his chambers. “If you wish, I will tuck you in.”


End file.
